Gypsy Magic
by Tuxedo Elf
Summary: He knew how, of course he did. He'd just never needed it until now. Warning: A slightly dark take on Dick Grayson, inspired by a scene from the Constantine TV show.


I watched 'Constantine' and this happened... Much darker than my usual stuff, sorry. I'm a bit anxious about posting it, to be honest!

Anyone who hasn't seen Constantine, the first minute of this clip pretty much explains it all! watch?v=8x4FQVdPvoY

Gypsy Magic

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He knew how, of course he did. It was as much a part of him as anything else, breathing, running, flying. He didn't fear it, why would he? He'd just never needed it before. Until now.

Now though, things were different. His family was dead, murdered for nothing more than money. Money was power, some said. He disagreed. There were powers far greater, he knew. Powers to whom money was nothing.

It was just a thought at first. There was no real feeling behind it, he didn't feel anything at all for so long, it seemed. Eventually though, as shock passed and reality was accepted, feelings crept back, with one over-riding all others.

This feeling was new, unlike anything he'd experienced before. He was cold from the inside. It was a strange sensation, like burning ice, spreading throughout his body, consuming him. It was so strange that it took a while before he identified the feeling, the almost impossible mixture of numbness and unbearable pain. But at last he did and it came as a relief to know the ice-cold burn as the need for vengeance, retribution.

He knew what to do with that.

He just needed to find him.

Help had come unexpectedly, the sympathetic eyes and kind words almost easing the darkness that had taken root inside him. The offer of a new home, a new start. It was unexpected but he accepted without hesitation. That life would bring new resources, resources he could use to aid his quest. That was all that mattered now.

Within weeks he learned that the resources were far vaster than anything he'd previously imagined. A world previously unknown opened up and, briefly, there was colour, colour that perhaps, one day, he could embrace wholeheartedly. He'd like that, he thought. Yet for now the darkness remained and his quest continued.

Until they found him.

There had been a fight, which they'd won. When it was over he'd watched quietly as the one responsible was taken away, the doors of the police van clanging closed with a sound that made his ears ring. It was over, they told him. The man who took his family had been caught, he was safe. He knew otherwise though. It wasn't over. Not yet.

A few days went by, allowing him to make his preparations. No one questioned his solitude, much to his relief. It made things so much easier.

Getting to see him was ridiculously easy. A few soft, sad words, a heartfelt plea, and they let him in. Left him alone when he begged. So easy, he almost felt guilty. He didn't want **them** getting into any trouble. And there was going to be plenty of trouble.

The man looked at him, all sneers and wicked words. Laughing, mocking, despite his predicament. No remorse, no regrets. Taking a life was nothing to a man like this.

He breathed deeply, ignored the cruel, taunting words. It would be over soon. It didn't matter.

He didn't speak as he took a knife hidden in his boot and raised it. Carefully, he cut his palm, watching the blood drip, gauging the amount as he smeared it onto a finger. No sense in wasting any.

Meeting the murderer's eyes briefly, he used the blood, painting symbols around the cell, whispering low under his breath. Oh, that wicked man was nervous now, demanding answers. He ignored him though, until he was done. Then he looked up, feeling quietly satisfied. Angry eyes looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

But he didn't. He left without a word, seeing no need to waste his breath.

Not until he was nearly home did he stop, reciting the rest of the incantation. There was a lightness as the words, the power, left his body. Now, now it was over.

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It was all over the news. How the murderer awaiting trial had been found dead in his cell one morning, an expression of fear frozen onto his lifeless face. It was completely inexplicable they said, his death without any natural cause.

Fortunately, no one blamed him, no one even suspected. Well, maybe one person did, but there was no proof and he said nothing. That was just how he liked it. Though he suspected, a second transgression would not be wise. That was fine. He didn't need it any more.

Lying in bed, Dick Grayson rolled over and pulled the covers a little higher, careful of the bandage on his hand. If he closed his eyes, he could hear Zucco's screams as the darkness rose up from the blood-painted symbols and consumed him, dragging his soul down into hell to suffer for his crimes.

He smiled.

There's nothing blacker than gypsy magic.

**END**


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